Page 60 of Chaos

“—for two weeks. I think a doctor could’ve told you you snapped your spine in half and you still would’ve strut out of there, insisting you’re fine.”

I poke my tongue against the inside of my cheek as I decide how I feel about that admittedly kind of spot-on evaluation. “Yeah, well, he didn’t.”

He did, however, make all kinds of huffy noises and pinched faces as he twisted and prodded at my ankle before wrapping it up and commanding me to stay off it—advice I’m definitely not going to take because it’s not that serious. It’s not a broken back. My back is just fine.

If you ignore the hoof-shaped bruise smack between my shoulder blades.

I got lucky, that’s what the doctor told me. That’s what I told Finn. That’s what I tell him again yet still, he hovers like a fussing mother hen as I lower myself from his precious babymonster truck and hobble the short journey to the front door he holds open and ushers me through with a dramatic swoop.

I’m mid-twist to make sure he catches my second eye-roll in as many minutes when he suddenly bellows, “Joy.”

Frowning as I follow his line of sight, I quickly figure out that Joy is the pretty, raven-haired girl abandoning the hostess stand in favor of swanning our way.

And hugging Finn.

LikehuggingFinn. Not a friendly,oh hey there, buddysideways hug, but a full-on frontal embrace that makes me feel like the biggest dumbass in the world for accusing Finn of trying to take me out.

“I didn’t know you were coming in today,” she says—because whatever relationship these two have, and I have a pretty good idea what that might be, it’s evidently the type where she knows his whereabouts. “This is a nice surprise.”

I’m not sure what kind of a response I’m expecting from Finn, but a half-smile and an even, “My usual table okay?” is not it.

Joy, on the other hand, is unperturbed. She guides us to what I assume is Finn’s usual table, the two of them walking a couple of steps ahead while I slope behind, eyeing their closeness curiously.

“Your usual?” she asks as we slide into a booth, not bothering with menus—not bothering to address me either. Which is set to become a running theme, apparently, because Finn doesn’t consult me before nodding.

He does, however, add a handful of drinks I’ve never heard of to the order.

Not long after she scurries away, I learn it’s not just Joy that Finn knows. It’s the waitress who swings by to drop off waters. A busboy walks past and calls a familiar greeting. This place has one of those open kitchen concepts, and I spot a man in anapron waving at the man opposite me, reminding me that he’s one ofthosepeople. A chronically liked person. Someone who makes friends wherever he goes, and with ease too, and who remembers the names of multiple staff members—of everyone he’s ever met, probably.

“What’s that look for?”

I replace whateverlookhe’s talking about with a blank slate. “I’m just trying to figure out when the fuck you have time to come here so often.” That’s the half-truth, at least—I just omit the part about whether or not he’s banging the pretty girl currently staring at me like she wants to shove the pen she repeatedly taps against her little podium through my eardrum. “Your girlfriend’s pretty.”

Subtle, I internally chastise myself.

Subtle, the upward quirk of his mouth teases. “Not my girlfriend.”

“No?”

He shakes his head.

Does she know that?“She seems nice.”

Unwrapping a couple of straws, he drops them into two glasses of water before pushing one across the table to me. “She is.”

“You seem like the type to like nice girls.”

“Yet you thought I was asking you out.”

Ouch. But touché. “She likes you.”

He shrugs like he knew that already.

“If I’m, like, some kind of a pawn—”

“Apawn?”

“—to make it clear you’re not interested—”

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